The Wanderer's Tale
by FortuneHost
Summary: Every quiet evening in Kakariko Village, a strange individual sits beneath a young birch tree, declaring all the world "disgusting." Who is he? Where did he come from? How did he come to be so full of hate and loathing for life? This is his story, his saga that spans Hyrule and lands beyond it.
1. Chapter 1

Every quiet evening in Kakariko Village, a strange individual sits beneath a young birch tree. He seemingly stares into nothing for much of the night, only speaking when spoken to. When addressed he replies only with a sneer, and proceeds to declare the world and all its inhabitants "disgusting." This disgruntled behavior earned him the named "Scorn" among the locals, and he had not been called by the name of his birth for many years. The town had long ago learned to give this misanthrope a wide berth, content to let him be miserable alone.

His features marked him as no Hylian, but as a visitor from parts unknown to the tiny village. His skin was a pale, washed-out ivory, and his eyes a milky white without iris or pupils. He was hairless, not merely bald but having never grown or been able to grow it. His stern, somewhat gaunt face sported high cheekbones and a pointed chin. For the most part he would go without shirt, and as a result many scars could be seen across his upper body in seemingly endless variety. Some were puckered rings that spoke of puncture wounds, others long, jagged lines clearly the work of an enemy blade.

Most of Kakariko preferred to avoid him, but some in their minds could not repress at least an ember of curiosity. Who was he? Where did he come from? How did he come to be so full of hate and loathing for life? Though these few wondered, none ever had the gall to approach him. It would be an effort in vain, as Scorn had no interest in divulging his past. A true shame for all who love a good story, as Scorn had lead an interesting life, an odyssey that spanned many, many leagues both in Hyrule and lands afar, the journey that lead him to his present bitterness and malcontent. Yet he was not always so. This is his story, his saga that spans the kingdom and lands beyond it.

Far, far to the west of Hyrule, and then north of Gerudo Valley, the desert slowly gives way to a steppe of chill winds and frequent snow. Feeble grasses cling to hard-packed dirt in permanent frost. Despite the harsh environs, life nonetheless stubbornly persisted as creatures great and small, from the woolly bovines called aurochs, vicious speartooth lions, to colossal mammoths, all survived in a land that knows no summer, merely varying degrees of cold.

This was Kuldenheim, the Land of Frost, and it was home to a people known as the verachtung. These pale folk were all but unknown to Hyrule but had a history every bit as storied and ancient. Their communities were organized into dozens and scores of warrior clans. Some were noble, warriors driven by codes of honour and bravery, others were cruel and ruthless raiders who took what they wanted from any who had the misfortune to be weaker than them. All though were born and bred for battle, possessed of hardy frames full of powerful sinew and lean muscle. They were a people who embraced the challenge of survival in the hostile climes of their home, seeing hardship as a challenge to overcome. They proudly thrived in a world most would not even visit.

Though known now only as Scorn, he was born Stigandr Jarnhåndsson, the only child of a mighty thane, a captain among warriors who served with courage and honour. It was widely believed that young Stigg, as he was more commonly known, would become a housecarl, a valorous warrior just like his father. The threads of fate, however, would weave for him a far different destiny.

* * *

It was the dark, early hours of the morning in the little hamlet of Helvegen. A child no more than five winters old slept peacefully on the furs of his tiny bed, resting soundly with nary a care in the world. His sleep was then forcefully interrupted as the boy's mother shook him awake, frantically calling his name.

"Stigandr! _Stigandr!_ Wake up child, _now!_ "

"Mama? What-"

"To the root cellar, quickly!"

"What's going on?"

"Follow me, there's no time!"

The boy obediently followed as he was directed to the door to a small dug out root cellar beneath the home, his mother all but shoving him into the small space, only barely large enough for the boy.

"Get in quickly and do not come out until either your father or I come to get you, and in the name of the Fates, do not make a sound."

Young Stigandr was a perceptive one, and though he did not know what was going on, he could easily see the panic in his mother's eyes.

"Mama, what's going on?" he asked again, hoping this time to receive an answer.

"Wicked men, they are coming for us, they will try to hurt you. You _must_ stay hidden my son, you must!"

"Why are they?"

"I don't have time, get in and do as I say. I… I love you."

The door to the cellar was abruptly shut and the child heard a great crash as he heard the front door kicked open by armoured boots. He heard harsh, unfamiliar voices shouting and the sound of furniture and other items toppled and smashed. He heard his mother confront them, defying their invasion, and recognized the ring of steel upon steel, followed by a worrisome thud of what could only be a falling body.

He clung tight to a little stuffed doll in the image of a red-armoured warrior. To him it always looked like Papa, and he would always hold it and think of him when his father was away on campaign. It was the only comfort he had right now, so full of fear. He tried his best to make no sound, even as terrified tears fell down his cheek, praying to the Fates. It would be over soon, it would be over, just wait, soon Mama or Papa would open the cellar and everybody would be alright, he just had to be patient.

More shouting from the strange voices and then he heard them file out, but the terror was not over. Even through the cellar door he could hear the sounds of battle from outside. The clang of bladed weapons, the death screams of friends and neighbours he had known his whole life. He began to feel the air quickly heat around him, and could see blazing red light from between the cracks of the cellar door as the house was put to the torch. Still he did not disobey his mother, even as he feared she was burning along with the house. The heat was unbearable, he wanted so desperately to cry out, to howl in pain and fear, but he knew what Mama said. He had to do as she asked, had to stay safely hidden.

Over the course of perhaps an hour the heat finally died down to be replaced with the more familiar chill of winter winds. Hours passed, and he watched the light fade to be replaced by the dark of night accompanied by the dire howls of wolves. Hunger gnawed at his belly like a ravenous beast, but still he did not disobey Mama. Another day passed and the child's stomach audibly growled. For a moment he feared the sound would betray him, leading the wicked men to his hideaway, but no one came. No man or monster ever came, neither his mother nor stranger arrived to retrieve him.

On the dawn of the third day the pangs of his hunger could no longer be ignored. He felt utterly starved and there had been nothing but silence for these three days. Had Mama… no, Mama would never forget him, but what if she was hurt, what if she needed him?! He had to do something, she would never leave him, and he wouldn't leave her! Still, even so resolved, "fear" did no justice to the trembling of his heart as his hand approached the doorknob. When he'd finally gathered the courage to actually turn and attempt to open it, he found it stuck. He risked putting more strength behind his next push and was soon rewarded as the cellar creaked open.

When he'd climbed out he saw that his house was gone, nothing save ebon cinders and cooling embers remaining of his home, with Mama nowhere to be found. A chill settled into his bones as he realized the walls of the building had, for the most part, fallen, leaving nothing between the child and the cruelty of the tundra wind. Carried on these gales was an overwhelming smell that assaulted his nostrils, a stomach turning cocktail of spent flames from scorched timbers and the sickening scent of bodies reduced to nothing more than charred, overcooked meat. He wandered what was once his village as a gentle frost fell to meet rising plumes of smoke from the blackened frames of torched buildings. Ash and snow swirled into one another to form a pale, silvery dust that clung to every inch of hard earth. An ungodly silence oppressed the atmosphere as none of the familiar sounds he'd grown up with were present. Not the ringing of the smith's hammer, not the laughter of his fellow children, nor the bellows of the woolly aurochs… nothing. Only unnatural stillness. He held out a childish hope that his family, his friends, neighbours, perhaps they'd gone for help and would be back any moment, but the boy had a pit in his stomach that told him this was almost assuredly not the case.

Seeing no one and nothing but death and ruin all around him, he could hold back no longer, his sobbing wails echoing off both buildings and the hills of the frozen steppe, his frightened grief the only lonely sound. He didn't understand, why, _why_ had the gods let this happen? He'd prayed, begged, he'd been a good boy all his life, but neither the Fates nor their fabled valkyries came from above to save his village, his friends… his mother. Had the Fates now abandoned him too?

So absorbed in his anguish the boy didn't even notice the advance of armoured footsteps until they were upon him. He felt a hand on his shoulder and nearly leaped in mortal terror until he turned to see an ironclad warrior in the red and gold of their clan, like his tiny doll brought to life. For a brief moment he thought perhaps it was his father, but this hope was quickly snuffed as he realized the face framed by the helmet was unknown to him. He heard the stranger's growling voice try its best to sound soothing or at least empathetic.

"Are you alright, little one?"

Stigandr decided that had this warrior wished to harm him he would have already done so. He clung to the steel-clad boot of the massive fighter, leaning against it, squeezing it tight like some cold and lifeless proxy of his mother's embrace. One arm clung to the chill metal, the other cradling his little doll. Stigandr heard the man shout somewhere far elsewhere.

"Someone come quickly, I've found a survivor!"

The boy did not open his eyes that burned from countless tears, but his ears easily discerned the clank of many mailed boots as they approached. More unfamiliar voices came from every corner of his hearing, surrounding him.

"Is this the only one you've found?" "Lady Fates, he's just a boy." "Someone get the thane." "Where are his parents?"

He heard the closest voice, the one belonging to the red warrior he clung to.

"Child, have you seen anyone else around?"

The boy sniffled, but tried to be brave as his papa tried to teach him.

"I… I haven't. Mama told me to wait in the cellar, and I did, but after three days I worried… oh gods, everyone is gone!"

He felt a mailed palm graze his head, the frigid gauntlets a poor substitute for the gentle, soothing caress of his mother. Then, for the first time the boy heard a familiar voice, and he recognized it as none other than his Aunt Freja, his father's sister who lived far away in the capital but made time to visit time now and again.

" _Stigandr?!_ Step aside, that's my nephew!"

She shoved aside massive bulky-armoured warriors thrice her size with strength that belied her more graceful, athletic frame. Stigandr opened his eyes and saw his aunt in black and maroon robes beneath segmented plates, lacquered in the same scarlet livery as other warriors of the cohort. Relieved to at last see a face he knew, he rushed into her waiting arms. She cooed and reassured him with a touch far softer than that of the hulking soldier earlier.

"Oh, thank the Fates you're safe, little Stigg. When I heard that Helvegen was under attack I feared the worse."

He felt Freja lift him, drawing him to one of her shoulders. Though he heard her voice address some of the others, her words were muffled as exhaustion took its full effect, sinking him into unconsciousness…

* * *

Freja felt the weight of the child slack and lean to one side, but still held her now sleeping nephew tightly. Whilst she cradled him, her gaze shifted upwards to the soldier who had first discovered him.

"Where was he, Ingvar?"

"Standing out in the open, Lady Freja, just wandering the streets."

She nodded in acknowledgment, then addressed all present in a voice that, while lowered as to not wake the boy, still carried all the authority of a shouted command.

"Rally everyone and begin searching every building. Interpret the phrase 'no stone left un-turned' literally and do not stop until you have combed every inch of this village. Beg the aid of the Once-Warriors that our messenger and this boy are not the only survivors."

"Yes ma'am!"

As she surveyed the area alongside the others, she was drawn to a building she barely recognized, but recognize it she did as the home of her brother. Her heart was in her throat as she watched the housecarl warriors move aside toppled beams and rafters in their search. With horror she saw a body revealed from beneath the rubble. Though the smoldering corpse was barely discernible, she identified her sister-in-law. The day only grew more painful as hours of searching yielded no trace of any other fortunate enough to have survived. Body after body was hauled from the streets or recovered from wreckage. Eventually they recovered the mangled remains of her beloved sibling Jarnhånd, his armour battered and rent, the spear in his hand caked with blood. He had died a warrior's death, but what good did that do her now that her brother, her first and truest friend in the world, was gone? Though she put up a stoic front, inside her spirit had shattered like glass.

In the days and nights that followed the carnage, a levy from nearby communities was raised to take to the forests and cut down great pines and firs to build funeral pyres for the many slain. Old, young, the raiders had no honour, making no distinction between soldier and civilian. Extollers, the priests of their people, arrived from the capital to perform the last rites and recite sacred prose, asking that the spirit of Wotan, the great wizard-king of old, guide these souls to the Halls of the Brave. Even with the many that had come, the process took a fortnight, so numerous were those lost. The warriors of Helvegen had defended their home valiantly despite being clearly outmatched. The clerics seemed assured that they'd met glorious ends, but no one else truly felt there was much in the way of glory to be had in this gruesome massacre.

Freja marched alongside her comrades with a heart heavier than any lodestone. Through the entire journey her mind was barely present in the real world, so consumed was she in thought. She was now the only family Stigg had left, and his care now rested upon her shoulders alone. She knew nothing about raising a child. Oh that her brother was here, though he would deny it, she always knew him to be the wiser of the two, how she wished for that wisdom now.

After a march of two days they came at last to Gyllden, the capital of their clan. The whole city was situated upon a gently sloping hill, its perimeter defended by a tall palisade wall many yards high, formed of the trunks of mighty trees still sporting their bark. Most buildings here were the thatched-roofed cottages of craftsmen and garrisoned warriors, but at the hill's height was a great longhouse built of red cedar, Høyrød, the Crimson Hall. Here sat the noble _Jarl_ , the lord to whom they had all sworn fealty.

Once allowed through the city gates the cohort went its separate ways, the rank-and-file to where duty directed them, leaving only Freja and the thane of the expedition, a man named Hjalmar. She had fought many battles alongside him, knowing him to be a dutiful and valorous warrior, and he had the scars to prove it. Up the city hill they climbed, but the incline never became so steep as to be difficult. Soon they had reached the stairs leading up, formed of stone left to natural shape, arranged and fitted so well as to require no mortar.

As they ascended Freja's eyes briefly wandered to a plant growing from between the rocks; a small moss-like patch of green from which arose wooded stems crowned with pink and purple blossoms the size of a thimble. Called _rødsildre_ , these hardy blooms flourished where other plants withered, defiant beauty amidst an inhospitable chill. She could not help but draw a parallel to her own people, similarly withstanding their often harsh and unforgiving homeland. By the time she had finished these musings they had reached the massive wooden doors, the posted guards allowing them through.

Within, the great hall was possessed of a humble grandeur. Unlike a Hylian castle, the richness of this place was not in glittering gold or gaudy germs but of wooden pillars carved into intricate patterns bearing resemblance to a great web of thorny vines. Hanging from the rafters were many banners bearing the sanguine livery of their house in a variety of heraldic devices. Each recalled the deeds of jarls and warriors past, testaments to the heroes of the clan's storied history. The white helm of Hammerhand, the speartooth rampant; arms of the warrior-queen Brynhildr, and a tapestry commemorating the final stand of the Company of Thjodolf, whose host of dauntless warriors held for three days against a Gerudo force many times their number. It was said that twenty foes died for each verachtung that fell. Yet neither Freja nor Hjalmar had time to appreciate the living history this grand space preserved and recorded, their lord had demanded news of the attack, and they would deliver it to him.

They approached the wooden throne of their liege, Hreidarr Suðrisbane. Even sitting it was apparent that the Jarl was a giant of a man, with broad shoulders and muscled frame. He wore a russet vest over a fitted tunic of a deep maroon, its edges decorated with sewn designs like blades and spiked chains that would intertwine into one another like a net of thorns, an echo of the patterns seen throughout the building. A cloak of grey wolf hide draped his shoulders, only adding to his imposing silhouette.

His face was weathered, and the beginnings of lines showed on some parts of his face, but the steel in his eyes had not left. He was not yet, but approaching middle-age, but anyone could see he had fight left in him. His head was as bare as any verachtung, unable to grow hair like all men of his people. He bore many scars and old wounds, from a permanently broken nose to his left ear that was shorter than the other, a section of it torn and ragged from feral teeth, the result of training a mighty speartooth lion named Arvakr.

The aforementioned lion sat at his feet, a creature of tawny fur with subtle sepia stripes and a pale white stomach. Two prominent canine teeth protruded from its upper jaw and grew to extend down beyond even its chin. Runes were carved like scrimshaw into these fangs in hopes that the beast's savagery and ferocity would be magnified in battle.

Thane Hjalmar knelt low, the sharp point of his knee armour scoring grooves into the wooden floor, one more added to a patchwork of such scratches courtesy of numerous obeisant warriors who had likewise taken the knee through the years. Still carrying a sleeping Stigandr, Freja's show of deference was slower and more careful, so as not to drop the child, but the loyal witch knelt all the same. Though she outranked him, she elected to allow the thane to be first to speak.

"Jarl Hreidarr, son of Halfdan, son of Gudrød, we bring the tidings you asked for."

The ruler said nothing, only nodding his acknowledgment, his gaze bidding the thane continue.

"It is as we feared, the village of Helvegen has been lost, burned to the ground by raiders. Though we searched for many days, the only other survivor we could find is the child that Lady Freja carries before you."

She took this as her cue to speak.

"Among the dead was my brother, your loyal thane Jarnhånd, this boy in my arms is his son."

When the Jarl spoke, his voice was clear but bore a growl befitting a wizened warrior-king.

"Who would be so bold as to attack the free men and women of Gyldsverd?"

Hjalmar replied, "From the report of the girl who fled to bring us the news of this attack, they bore the arms and colours of Clan Hrafn."

At the Jarl's side was a man of wiry frame, proof he was no combatant. He was draped in long-sleeved robes of red with a lining of black, adorned with occasional sewn designs of a golden colour. A sash of a brighter scarlet around his waist served as a belt. His right eye was missing, replaced by an orb of crystal glass set in an iron mask that covered half his face. All in the capital knew him as Rangvald, brother to the Jarl and head of the clan's priesthood. Though most court extollers served only a spiritual role, Rangvald's keen political mind meant that he provided his elder sibling with counsel of a more secular nature as well. If Freja was Hreidarr's right hand, then Rangvald was his left.

He spoke with a voice far smoother than his brother and absent the grumble, responding to the thane's news with a slight tremor in his voice that spoke of grave concern.

"Clan Hrafn?" he asked, "Can you be sure? Can we be certain that the testimony of a traumatized girl is not mistaken?"

Freja snorted with disgust. Long had she been at odds with the cleric, and both saw one another as fierce rivals, each maneuvering to become the dominant voice in the Jarl's ear. This craven display only magnified her distaste for him.

"What reason would she have to lie? Surely that is not _fear_ I hear in your voice?"

Rangvald glared her way in return.

"The berserkers of Hrafn are known far and wide for their savagery. To incite war against them unnecessarily could spell our doom, and there is no honour to be had in the death of our clan."

Thane Hjalmar snarled, nearly shouting.

"The souls of the fallen cry out for vengeance! This attack on our soil is brazen and despicable! You speak of honour but you would have us cower like a wounded warg! You have no excuse to sit on your heels, _dunga!_ "

"You presume to call me _useless?_ " shouted the extoller, "Remind me again under whose watch this happened, you bloated, stinking mammoth carcass?"

"SILENCE!" barked the Jarl. "Now is not the time for a _flyting_ contest! The thane is correct, honour demands we answer, but this attack robbed us of many of our finest warriors, including Thane Jarnhånd. To attack now would invite a reprisal we may not be able to withstand. For all we know, war is exactly what they want, this attack an attempt to bait us into a conflict that, as Rangvald said, could lead to the extinction of our house and the enslavement of our people. Rest assured though, my warriors, these crimes will be answered for, even should we have to nurse sacred grudges for a hundred seasons, but until such a time as we can be assured of victory we must stay our hand from any rash decisions."

"Noble Jarl," said Freja, "if the death of many is what you wish to avoid, let me ride to meet them alone. I will take our swiftest speartooth and visit a curse upon their entire bloodline!"

"No, honoured _seiðkonur_ , you have your nephew to think of now. You are the only one he has to rely on. It would benefit neither him nor our clan for our most potent spellcaster to die needlessly in battle."

"Satisfying the demands of our warrior-honour is hardly needless."

"I am aware, but you have a more important duty to fulfill. Should you truly with to honour your slain kin, the best thing to do is care for his son. Now, loyal thane, beloved brother of mine, begone for now. I would have words with our court witch."

Both housecarl and extoller bowed their heads in deference, though frustration and resentment for one another was still plain on both their faces as they left. When they had gone, Hreidarr turned to her.

"I will have a room prepared for him, but first get the boy to the chirurgeons. I will employ our clan's most skilled to attend him. In the meantime, rest, you have been through much."

"I will be fine, my lord."

"Do not contest me, I'll not have you sustaining yourself on your magic alone, not now. No, today you need to eat, rest, recover. That is my command. The clan needs you, as does your nephew."

"If it be your will, Jarl."

Miraculously, the boy was found to be mostly unscathed, if malnourished from his involuntary fast. Once assured that her little Stigg was in good hands, Freja slowly trudged her way to her chambers within the palace. The Jarl had seen through her intentions earlier, she _had_ planned on sustaining herself on magic in lieu of genuine rest. She'd planned on spending that energy sharpening her weapons, inscribing staves of blood magic, and preparing foul curses that called upon the wrath of Wotan and Hammerhand on the guilty, but she could not refuse the demands of her lord. Sighing in exhaustion, she immediately felt her entire body go all but limp. Utterly spent both physically and mentally, she did not even take the time to change out of her armour before collapsing onto her bed and falling into dreamless sleep, uncertain what the future, or even tomorrow would bring.

* * *

The great Jarl Hreidarr walked the passages of the Crimson Hall, his only company the crackle of torches that lined the walls. He was heading not to his own chambers but those of his brother the extoller. The day's tragedy had left his mind heavy and troubled with questions of sacred nature. When he reached the quarters he knocked softly on the door and was told to let himself in.

He saw his brother kneeling before a shrine complete with three small wooden idols the size of chess pieces, one of each of the Norns, or Fates. Urðr, Crone of the Past, Verðandi, Mother of the Present, and. Skuld, Maiden of the Future. Rangvald responded without turning to face him.

"What do you require, my lord?"

"I have questions, questions of the hereafter."

"By all means."

"So many died at Helvegen, so many innocents perished, subject to cruel and honourless deaths, even children slaughtered…"

"I would think by now that such truth, unpalatable as it may be, would be known to you."

"No, this butchery is not meant to be. A true warrior does not commit these deeds. How can any self-respecting housecarl debase themselves and their clan this way?"

"They are _ni_ _ð_ _ings_ , men without honour or shame. I suspect that nothing is beneath such worms."

"So removing them would not simply be justified revenge, but a favour to all warriors worthy of the name."

Rangvald nodded, "Indeed, and their fate afterwards is certain, their souls shall be cast into the Void for their evil."

"What of their victims, what is their fate? They did not die in honourable battle, so are they consigned to darkness as well?"

"The Eddas are… not clear on this matter. I would imagine the young ones go to the side of the Mother, for they are beloved by her especially."

"I hope so, the idea of doomed children is not one I care to entertain."

"The minds of gods are not for mortals to judge. The Norns shall do as they will, and we must bow to them as surely as housecarls before their retainer. Remember our history, of what happened when we chose to forsake the will of the Fates, and the gods unleashed the wrath of the giants on our forefathers."

"I do, and fear not, I have no intention of repeating or even so much as echoing our ancestors' mistakes. Nevertheless, sometimes I question the expediency of some refrains within Eddas, occasionally their commands seem superfluous or counter-intuitive."

"Doubt does not become you, Hreidarr, nor does it yield any profit to our house. Be wary, for to question the Fates is a dangerous path down a dark road, a slick plummet that once you fall down would not be able to escape. I beg you not to journey there, where even I cannot save you."

"Of course not. Thank you as ever for your counsel. I have no heirs as of yet, but still I sleep peacefully knowing that should the worst happen before then, I would still leave the throne in good hands."

"Let us hope it never comes to that. Now, I think rest would be wise for the both of us, the days to follow will doubtless be busy in the wake of this attack."

"I pray this is an isolated incident and not a prelude to invasion."

"Have faith, brother. All will be well in the end."

* * *

Days passed, and while the boy's body soon healed and his strength returned, his spirit was distant. When the child spoke at all it was low and without life or emotion. He would not leave his new room within the Crimson Hall, he would not play with the other children of the town… it was clear that there were invisible scars that were taking far longer to heal.

As this pattern of isolation entered a second week, Freja had again tried and failed to engage her nephew. With a heavy sigh she slumped her back against the walls outside the child's room, burying her face in her hands in exasperation.

"Oh Verðandi, Norn of Wisdom," she whispered in prayer, as she had so often lately, "I need your aid, _please_ goddess, help me reach him, help me heal him. Holy goddess help me _please_ … help me."

She had searched her mind, trying to think of someone, anyone who could help, any friend or ally of hers, anyone she could trust who might have the skills to triumph over the child's grief. Perhaps addled by aching heart and mind, she could think of no one. Nor was there any spell either, no runic ward or invocations that could mend his malady. She'd found nothing, but not for lack of trying. The loremasters had maintained that the clan's archives had no scroll that could do what she asked. She had searched every vellum scroll nonetheless.

Whenever others needed help, either the Jarl or her fellow warriors, they came to her. To everyone she was the one with all the answers, but this time she had none. If she truly was the wisest as others often insisted then to whom was she to turn? The Fates? They had been silent, miserly with their blessings. Of course that begged a theological question, the gods had been so active in the mythic past yet the present saw no such miracles. What changed, why had they chosen to stand aloof to leave their people to fend for themselves? Why had they left her alone, why had they not prevented the doom of Helvegen?

She went from leaning against the wall to sliding down to a seat on the floor. Though weary of mind and body, she refused to weep, seeing was no time for it. More than once over the weeks she'd spent long nights using her witchcraft to sustain herself beyond the limits of her exhaustion. Normally such magic was meant to allow the body to continue fighting despite grievous injury, but it could just as easily be a sort of sorcerous stimulant if required. Stigandr was in pain, and if that meant forgoing sleep now and again to find a way to help him, then she had no regrets.

Oh how she wished the Jarl had allowed her to avenge her brother's death that day. She had dreamt of it, plotted it a thousand ways in her mind in frightening detail. All the myriad forms of destruction she could visit against the Hrafnings, terrible, horrifying methods. She could conjure a plague that ravaged their bodies with sores, boils, and pustules, their flesh rotting before they died in agony. Alternatively, she could bend a herd of mammoths to her will, goad them to stampede and flatten their capital. Lastly, she could take a more direct hand, wade into the heart of their domain slaying as many as she could with blade and spell until nothing remained of them but crimson stains on the walls. That last one was death all but ensured, but she would send as many of them screaming into the Void as she could before she fell.

She burned with such wrath, she craved vengeance, to exact bloody vengeance… it was clear her own mind was full of disquiet, but she gave no thought to her own healing. It was inconsequential at this time. What she did not realize was that the Jarl had noticed her demeanour, and grew greatly concerned with his court witch.

"So Freja, how is the boy?" he asked her one day.

"Not well, my lord. I have tried all that I can."

"Perhaps the child could benefit from spiritual guidance?"

Freja had to hide a sneer. It made her sick, but in her desperation she had humbled herself and asked the Court Extoller for assistance.

"The Court Extoller's efforts were… likewise unsuccessful. I feel his advice is more suited for adults, complex theological matters are perhaps above the head of a five year old."

That was the diplomatic way to put it. Really, Rangvald's "help" only served to terrify Stigg with gruesome imagery of fire and brimstone, of eternal suffering in the Void. She felt like a fool to accept, and in response she'd resolved to never approach the man in these matters again.

She watched as the Jarl stroked his chin pensively.

"Hmm, you may have a point. Perhaps I should speak with him?"

"My lord?"

"You said you have tried everything else, gone to everyone else. All but myself, and I would like to offer my assistance."

"I would not wish to intrude or impede your duties. The duty to care for him, to heal and provide for him, is my own."

"Freja, only a fool could miss that you're burning the candle at both ends. While all of that is indeed your duty, it is not one you need bear alone. After all, do you not remember the words of Hammerhand?"

"A single warrior does not make a charge, only with many riders can it strike."

"Yes, and so it is that I have a duty to you as much you to me."

"To… me?"

"Yes, you are my housecarl, and my duty as Jarl is to see to the needs of my people."

"I had always believed your place was to rule above us, to guide us to an honourable destiny."

"That is only part of it. When I was young, many, _many_ winters ago," he added with a chuckle, "my father gave me advice that I will forever keep with me. He said that a clan is like a family, every man your brother, every child your own. What does it say about a man who cannot care for those who depend on him? Our house is made of individuals, and so care of the individual is as essential as commanding the many, for one informs to other, and so such duties are intertwined."

"Should you reach him when I have been unable to I will be eternally grateful."

* * *

Stigandr stared into nothingness, as had been his hallmark for many days. No life dwelt within his eyes, no vibrancy or youthful energy typical of a boy his age. Instead, over and over like a shell-shocked veteran he cycled through dark thoughts and unceasing memories of woeful nature, endlessly repeated until his mind was truly hollow. His days were marked by numbness and inactivity and his nights tormented as his barely sleeping mind relived the events over and over, until sleep had become a thing of dread.

When he heard a knock on the door he'd almost been unable to respond to it, so deep he was in rumination. No words left his lips, only an acquiescent grunt and incoherent mumble. Yet this served well enough that they knew they were allowed to enter, or at least Stigg did not care if this person did. When the telltale creak of the door whined aloud, he expected to see his aunt, no doubt to resume her efforts at putting his shattered mind back together. This time, however, it was a far different visitor. Through the doorway he saw not his weary-eyed aunt, but instead the massive frame of Jarl Hreidarr. Normally Stigandr would have the wherewithal to immediately bow but such protocol seemed beyond his ability now. He watched the great warrior lord sit beside him on his bed, dwarfing the child in size by several feet. For several minutes they sat there, neither saying a word until the Jarl cleared his throat and spoke, his harsh voice nonetheless bearing a surprising, almost incongruous, vein of tenderness.

"So Stigandr, how have you been? Your aunt has been very worried about you."

The boy said nothing, only continuing his stare a thousand yards into nothing. Had his aunt or any of the warriors witnessed the child ignoring their retainer, they would be furious at his rudeness. The Jarl on the other hand seemed to take no offense at Stigg's actions. The Jarl simply kept talking, obviously eager to get the child to speak to him.

"Tell me what has been on your mind, it is clearly troubled, and to bottle such trouble can only lead to its escalation."

Stigandr sighed, this man may not like the truth, Lady Fates help him, but he risked a vulnerable honesty.

"I just… I just don't understand, sir. Why didn't the gods listen to my prayers? Why did they ignore me? Are Mama and Papa's death my fault? Is that why the valkyries never came to save us?"

"The blame lies upon those who gave the order and those who carried it out. All who participated are guilty of _ni_ _þ_ , of dishonour. You are not of this guilty party, you have shown no niþ. As for the valkyries, they are but Choosers of the Slain, not slayers themselves. That is not within their power or purpose."

"If these monsters were so bad and full of 'neeth,' then why didn't the Norns punish them?"

"Ah, but they will be punished. Those who shame themselves, their clans, and their ancestors receive justice and punishment."

"Why wait? Why wait and not save lives? They could call thunder from the sky, burning rain, crush the mountains to dust, yet they cannot spare even a little of that power to those in need?"

"The Norns punish only after death because to smite those when alive would consign all to a life of fear and terror of the Ladies. Choice is what matters, the choice to be an honourable man. Without this choice there is no freedom to be that honourable man who fulfills his _plikt_ , his duty to home, hearth, and lord."

"My parents didn't get a choice."

"They did, when faced with danger they fought bravely to keep you safe."

"But they _died!_ They died and failed!"

"Did they? They fought to defend you, and do you not stand living before me? Then I say they were victorious."

A sense of revelation slowly dawned on the boy's face, his eyes alight the with subtle shine of one who has arrived upon great truth."

"So they didn't lose?"

"No, they did not. They had a choice to either keep themselves alive or defend you. They chose you, they put the well-being of another before themselves and that is the very _foundation_ of honour. So I will not say forgive your parents, instead realize there is nothing to forgive. They are Once-Warriors now, and from the Halls of the Brave they watch over you still."

* * *

In the weeks that followed, Freja watched as with each day her nephew's demeanour brightened. He became more and more engaged, returning to the happy, young, exuberant child bearing the bright smile every young one is meant to and deserves to have. He began to play with the other children once more, though with a glint in his eyes that shone with the wisdom of a one far older. She had little doubt that this was the result of the Jarl's tutelage.

She spent more time with her lord as well, eagerly relaying the boy's progress to him. Weeks turned to months and as they passed soon nothing remained of the haunted stare of a survivor, instead replaced with the proud bearing of one triumphant. Soon her own invisible scars began to heal as she came to terms with her loss. Her strength returned as surely as Stigandr's, and it was not long before she resumed her services as Court Witch.

She knew she would forever be in debt to the Jarl for his aid. Despite the growl of her liege's voice, despite his gruff bearing, beneath the armour of a warrior she began to see beating the heart of a father, one full of not just honour but kindness. He had done so much but the assistance did not end, as he took the boy under his wing. All within the walls of Gyllden began to watch as Stigandr grew from frightened orphan to a boy with a bright future. After all, Jarnhåndsson had been sired by a great thane, was being raised by a great sorceress, and tutored by the Jarl himself. He had all the potential in the world to become one of Gyldensverd's mightiest warriors. For now, though, Freja was simply glad to have little Stigg back as the child she knew before the tragedy.

* * *

 _Thank you for reading, and I hope you will look forward to future chapters. If it wasn't apparent, this story is about the pale man who haunts Kakariko village at night and says that "people are disgusting." I never learned this character's name, but one day found myself wanting to explore his story. Later, when consulting the Zelda Wiki, I discovered that the character does have an official name, "Grog." However, I feel my own version of these events is a far more intriguing alternative and so have no plans to change the story I want to tell here. To those who prefer a more strict adherence to Nintendo's version, I say give this story a chance and you might find yourself pleasantly surprised._

 _Feel free to leave a review and/or send me a message if you enjoyed the story or just want to say "hello."_

* * *

 **PRONUNCIATIONS, IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER**

 **A** **rvakr** (ahr-vahk-ər)

 **auroch** (ow-rohk) pl. aurochs

 **Brynhildr** (breen-hill-dər)

 **chirurgeon** (kai-ruhr-jen) pl. chirurgeons

 **dunga** (doon-gah)

 **Edda** (ed-duh) pl. Eddas

 **flyting** (flit-ing)

 **Freja** (fray-yuh)

 **Gudrød** (good-reud)  
The EU represents a non-English sound. A good example may be the "eu" at the end of French _bleu_.

 **Gyldsverd** (geeld-sfuhrd)

 **Gyllden** (geell-den)

 **Halfdan** (hahlf-dann)

 **Helvegen** (hell-veh-gehn)

 **Hjalmar** (hyahl-mahr)

 **Høyrød** (heu-oy-reud)

 **Hrafn** (hrahf-ən)

 **Hreidarr** **Suðrisbane** (hrai-dahr) (soodh-reez-bayn)  
DH representing the "th" in _the_ and _then_.

 **Ingvar** (ing-vahr)

 **Jarl** (yahrl)

 **Kuldenheim** (kool-dehn-haim)

 **niðing** (needh-ing) pl. niðings

 **niþ** (neeth)

 **Norn** (nohrn)

 **plikt** (plik-ət)

 **Rangvald** (rahng-vahld)

 **røsildre** (reu-sill-jruh)

 **seiðkonur** (seedh-kohn-uhr)

 **Skuld** (skulld)

 **Stigandr** **Jarnhåndsson** (sti-gahn-dər) (yahrn-hohnd-suhn)

 **thane** (thayn)

 **Thjodolf** (thyoh-dohlf)

 **Urðr** (oor-dhər)

 **verachtung** (ver-ahkh-toong) pl. verachtung  
KH representing a sound in the back of one's throat like German _Bach_ or Scottish Gaelic _loch_.

 **Verðandi** (ver-dhahn-dee)

 **warg** (wahrg) pl. wargs

 **Wotan** (woh-tann)


	2. Chapter 2

Walking out into the cool air of a Kakariko evening, Scorn took a deep breath. Though not as biting as the chill of home, it was brisk enough to trigger a measure of nostalgia. Such memories were not wistful, instead they were far more bitter. Things had been so simple then, before he knew the truth of the world. There was honour and dishonour, right and wrong. This was good and that was bad. Then it had to get complicated, then the truth became… well, he supposed the truth had always been there, he just hadn't seen it.

These Hylians had a saying, that ignorance was bliss. When first he'd encountered the phrase he scoffed at the notion, but he had come to realize its accuracy. There was no going back, though. Secrets revealed can never be hidden again, revelation could not be undone. Once a thing is learned there is little, or rather nothing, that can erase it. Suppress it perhaps, but the truth would always be there, lurking in a dark corner of the consciousness. How many secrets, how many painful lessons about the way of the mortal experience had he been exposed to? His life had been better when he'd been blind to it all… or was that better? To live a comfortable lie as opposed to an unsettling truth? Truth, after all, had done him no favours.

He trudged the familiar path from his home to the stump beneath the birch tree, so well-worn by now as to be sculpted to his seat. Poignant, really. A stump next to a sapling. New life growing near the corpse of an older one, as if the birch would be forever reminded of the dark fate that awaits all things. Were it living in the manner of people he would pity the plant. To be shown the harsh light of truth so young, it reminded him of himself.

He heard footsteps. Strange, normally the night granted him solitude, who besides him could be awake at this hour? Scorn watched as a young boy, fourteen winters old from the look of him, approach. He was dressed in a tunic of green and a long pointed cap that hung down from the back of his head. The child looked Hylian enough, but never in his wide travels had he ever encountered such strange garb. Shock upon shock, the boy actually spoke to him.

"Hello!"

Scorn wasn't sure how to even respond at first, it had been so long since anyone had spoken to him that he almost wondered if he remembered how.

"Uh… hello?"

"So, hey, I'm not from around here, would you mind answering a few questions from a weary traveler?"

He could not parse this strange child or his obnoxiously bright demeanour. That said, he found himself curious about this visitor.

"I suppose, but what on earth made you stop here, though? This town isn't exactly a tourist destination."

"I don't know what a tourist is, I was just told to come this way to reach Death Mountain."

"I see…"

"But now I'm here I'm seeing all kinds of things I've never seen before."

"What could possibly intrigue you about this place?"

"Well, for starters, I can't even figure out what the buildings are made of. It looks like stone but it's red, and in little rectangles stacked on top of one another."

"You mean… bricks? Have you never seen a brick house before?"

"Bricks… huh. To answer your question; no. I've never seen anything like it. Back home we live in trees, and when I visited Castleton the buildings were made of wood too."

"Where in Creation are you from that you've never even _heard_ of a brick building?"

"Oh, _long_ way from here, far to the south. People call it lots of names, I've heard Hylians call it Hyperborea, and a girl I met called it Tir na Nog."

Scorn's ridged eyebrows raised in genuine curiosity.

"You mean to say you're actually from around the Forbidden Forest? I didn't think anyone lived near there."

"Well…" the boy said, suddenly somewhat downcast. "There aren't as many of us as there used to be."

"Heh, then I guess we're both strangers to this miserable kingdom."

"What's so miserable about it?"

"You clearly have not been here long."

"A few weeks at most, and I'm told there are all kinds of places more to see."

"Hyrule is a very big place, but full of little people."

"Seeing as you're all taller than me, I'm guessing you mean small-minded."

"Correct."

"That hasn't been my experience at all."

"Give it time. I've been here for years, and I've been cursed to see its true face, and it is… disgusting."

Scorn watched the boy become clearly uncomfortable with the truth he had just been granted. This wasn't a new reaction, but most simply walked away at this point. Instead, the boy simply changed topics.

"So, uh, my name's Link. What's yours?"

"People around here just call me Scorn."

"Yes, but you implied you are not from around here, so where are you from? Where is home?"

"I doubt you've even heard of it."

"That's okay, there's a lot of places I've never heard of. I'd like to, though."

"You are curious… about me?"

"Yes? Why wouldn't I be?"

"You are a very strange fellow, Link."

"Eh, I've heard that one my whole life."

"Hmm, well, I'm from a place very far away, much farther than the Forest is from here. It's called Kuldenheim."

"So if it's so far away how did you get here from there?"

"It's a very long, and very sad story, but it's growing late, even for me. Perhaps I could regale you another time."

"Well… I do have some things to do, I need to get to Death Mountain for one, but when I get back I could see if I can find you again."

"I'm here most nights, and if I'm not, just ask anyone in the village. You'll likely get puzzled looks for doing so, but either way, I'm not difficult to find."

"Another time then, Mr. Scorn."

After the child left he rose from his seat, hearing his spine crack as he did so. He was getting old, the pangs of time beginning to settle within his body. No matter, pain was not a new thing. He had learned long ago not to fear it. Instead, he embraced it as his aunt had taught him long ago… in another lifetime, really.

* * *

Many years passed, and soon it was time for Stigg to become a man and join a mammoth hunt. The verachtung had bred the aurochs for meat and milk for centuries, if not millennia, but to hunt the mammoth was a rite of passage, to chase down one of the titanic beasts with nothing but spear and wit as their ancestors had done for eons. It was a dangerous practice, one that would occasionally result in death. While tragic, any who fell in this way were considered to have died a glorious death by default, so even to perish was never in vain. On a frosty day, the jarl led a band of about a dozen children to participate in this ancient ritual.

Jarl Hreiddar sat atop his speartooth Arvakr, breathing in the cool air and watching his exhales become visible fog. He heard the steps of of feet in snow and turned to Stigandr, now a boy of fourteen, and alongside him a girl of similar age. Both took a deferential knee, with Stigg addressing the great lord.

"My lord, Hjördis and I have scouted the area and located a herd."

"And did you find the lead bull?"

"Yes, he looks to be mighty, a suitable challenge for the sons and daughters of Gyldsverd."

"Excellent, join the others and we will begin the approach."

Hreidarr turned to face the other participants in the hunt.

"Today you will begin as children, but when the beast is slain you will be so no longer. You will become worthy men and women of Gyldsverd. It is a great honour, and a great burden, for once you make this transition you will forever after be expected to fulfill your plikt to your families and your clans. Do not shirk from it and you will be rewarded with the support of the living and the respect of the departed. Go and make all of them proud."

With this, he urged his steed onward, the young verachtung following on foot not far behind. Along the way though, Stigg jogged ahead to stand at the side of the jarl so as to speak to him directly.

"Jarl Hreidarr, I was wondering if you'd do me the honour of answering a question I had."

"Speak freely, Jarnhåndsson."

"You spoke of our duty, but I'm curious, what is yours? Does a jarl have their own plikt?"

"We all have our plikt, and a jarl is no different. For most this means providing for their spouse and children, but a jarl is called to do far more. They must provide for the whole of the clan, to treat everyone within as family. True honour is to be found in following your plikt, and the solemn duty of power and privilege is to wield it responsibly."

"What would a housecarl do were his retainer to command something dishonourable? Is the warrior to follow his plikt to his lord or should he rebel against his master in the name of honour?"

"You are right, a loyal housecarl cannot do both, but if a jarl leads with honour there will be no such conflict. When the jarl acts in accordance with their plikt, their warriors can live according to theirs without fear of such contradictions. Without this honour, without plikt, the clan is thrown out of balance. When honour is forsaken by even the jarls, everyone suffers."

"I heard Lord Rangvald speak of the _j_ _ö_ _tun_ , the giants of old. He said that they shattered our ancient empire in response to shameful deeds, is that the suffering you refer to?"

"That is an example, and perhaps the most potent."

"What were their crimes, what dishonour did our forefathers and foremothers commit?"

"For a time, though long ago, our ancestors were not divided into clans as they are now. Once we were a unified kingdom with a power to rival the Gerudo Empire that would come later."

"So what happened?"

"Despite such power our people became greedy and enslaved a people called the Subrosians to serve as thralls. The giants who were once our allies disapproved and so cast down our forefathers, rescuing the thralls and leading them away to where we do not know. Honour is about choice, it comes from full knowledge of what is right and choosing it. A thrall, however, was not allowed choice and without choice there is no honour, so our misdeeds denied an entire race the ability to be honourable. That was the great crime of our people, and our great lesson of the consequences of ignoring what is right."

Suddenly a great trumpeting could be heard, startlingly close, along with the rumble of thunderous footsteps. They all watched as a herd of mammoths, perhaps a hundred or more of them, trod across the frozen plain. They were gigantic elephantine beasts covered in shaggy brown fur, standing four yards high at the shoulder. Beneath a long trunk could be seen a pair of ivory tusks several feet long curving down and inwards. Even young mammoths were larger than the jarl's speartooth and far stockier, evidence of powerful muscles hidden under fur. The jarl knew they would be here, well acquainted with the animals' yearly migration routes through the frozen steppes. Hreidarr turned to the boy.

"Which one is the bull?"

Stigg pointed out a mammoth even larger than its brethren, an astounding fifteen feet tall. This giant among giants could be none other than the alpha they sought. The jarl smiled, Stigandr and the girl Hjördis had indeed selected a mighty creature. To bring it down would be glorious for these young ones. Hreidarr addressed them again.

"You know what to do, work together and you shall triumph together."


End file.
